


the thrill in both victory and defeat

by Zerrat



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerrat/pseuds/Zerrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Sherlock's departure, Joan Watson finds herself on the receiving end of a frustrating number of letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thrill in both victory and defeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vendettadays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vendettadays/gifts).



The whole thing started with letters.

They began to arrive less than a month after Sherlock had departed - after he'd left just a note for Joan, letting her know his plans in London. She'd been his partner, and yet she'd been given no more than an afterthought in a deserted, empty brownstone. 

When she first saw the letter, addressed to her in neat, flowing handwriting, settled between a phone bill and some junk mail, her heart had leapt. A part of her had hoped that it would be from him, trying to mend the bitter pall his cold departure had left on their broken partnership. 

Few people had really known of Joan's new address - just her family, her closer friends, and the usual suspects of the bank and every other service provider she could hardly forgo. And yet, here it was, her name written out clear as anything on the heavy paper. 

Frowning and her curiosity piqued, Joan had collected her mail, shoving the rest of the bills in the pocket of her winter coat and leaving the letter. Taking the stairs at a leisurely pace, she'd carefully torn open the envelope, intending to read as she walked - then she'd realised who the letter was from. 

Forget that they were addressed to _my dear Watson,_ a strange twisted endearment only one person had the gall to use. All Joan needed to see was the coiling serpent in the clever turn of phrase, biting and self-assured, and she had scarcely needed to check the name to know with a sick certainty who had written her. 

_Jamie Moriarty,_ if that was truly her real name and not just another layer of an alias. How Moriarty had even gotten her hands on Joan's new address was something she'd probably never know, and in all likelihood, something she didn't _want_ to know. 

Joan really should have thrown the letter in the trashcan, binned it without having bothered reading further. She'd been so tempted, but in the end, restraint had won out. God only knew what sort of overcomplicated plan of Moriarty's _that_ might be fulfilling, though - Joan had no desire to be an unwitting accomplice as Moriarty reasserted control over her empire. 

Instead, Joan had shoved the letter, mostly unread, into an old shoebox under her bed. Quite frankly, she'd intended to forget about it. With her new consulting service only just in its infant stages, she had more than enough to keep her mind off Sherlock's dangerous ex and any mind games she wanted to play. 

That had been where Joan had been sure it would end, and for a few days, that had worked out pretty well. 

At least, it had until the next of the letters arrived at her mailbox. Then the next. And the next. 

They all joined the first in that shoebox under her bed, the latter ones entirely unopened when Joan had determined that really, the correspondence had no useful information coded inside. 

Even so, Joan hadn't dared destroy what she'd received, though there were moments - usually when she received the next in what was an infuriating string of self-involved and tone-deaf attempts at establishing a correspondence - when she very much thought doing so would be highly, _highly_ satisfying. 

That would have given Moriarty far too much traction in Joan's head, however, and she repeated it as a calming mantra as she shoved the latest letter under her bed and into the shoebox. Any satisfaction she'd feel would be fleeting at best, and it wasn't as though Moriarty would get a message from it. 

Unless she sent the ashes back - god, while it would be breathtakingly juvenile, it was so, so tempting. 

As for Moriarty... well, Joan knew that the woman was one to grow bored of petty tricks easily. If she got no answer within the first eight or so letters, she'd find herself run out of hidden venom to spread. With no identifiable flaws in Joan's armour to exploit, Moriarty would simply... give up and turn her attention elsewhere. 

It was a good plan, Joan had reasoned. Over the years, she'd become excellent at standing her ground, no matter how dangerous her opponent.

###

Joan underestimated Moriarty's persistence. It had been the whole of a month already, with letters arriving every other day. The shoebox beneath her bed had been filled to overflowing, and in frustration, Joan had torn open the latest. What on earth could Jamie Moriarty possibly want to say to someone she'd considered Sherlock's _mascot_?

Even now, even with the grudging respect Moriarty had given her during their last encounter, the derision stung. It was power over Joan and her thoughts, when she'd been so determined that Moriarty would have _none_. You did not give that woman even an inch. That much she agreed with Sherlock on. 

Irritable, Joan let out a long, frustrated sigh as she scanned the letter in her lamp light, her desk littered with case photographs regarding the assassination of a leader of a drug cartel.

_Watson,_

_By now I realise that nothing I can say will endear me to you, or create a bridge between us where none can exist. I realise it, and yet I still find myself pursuing this seemingly fruitless task. Still I find myself returning to the same questions, day after day in this dull prison of the mind, until I feel I must go mad from it._

_I wonder how it was that you were so easily able to understand me. What weaknesses do I show, when all my life I have fought against such flaws - when I had surely perfected my mask?_

_Above all, I wonder about you. Why was it you, Joan Watson? What makes you so special?_

_You interest me, and I cannot for the life of me understand why. If time would permit, I would wish to find out._

_Ever yours,_

_Jamie Moriarty._

Joan crumpled the paper up with trembling hands, disgusted by what she'd read. It was just the sort of psychological warfare she had expected of a woman who broke people for her day's entertainment, who made a _sport_ of destroying lives and countries alike. She was not nearly stupid enough to believe even a word of Moriarty's correspondence, to let even a drop of venom into her veins. 

She pressed her fingers to her temple, staring down at the ball of paper. 

Really, Joan did know better than to take Moriarty at her word. And she absolutely was not going to ignore that simple rule of the universe - that Moriarty _lied_. 

But one line in that letter told a story that Joan was helpless to ignore - that one, dangerous line.

_You interest me,_ Moriarty had written, had said during the Kayden Fuller case. Twice now, she'd confessed as much. 

Joan had studied graphology with Sherlock, had looked into all the hidden meanings behind the form of writing itself. She knew how to read beyond the words, to look at how they'd been written, to guess at the psychological state of the one who'd written it.

With that one line, there had been no pressure behind the pen, no more than the rest. For a confession of interest, that had been odd, which suggested that it in itself had been a lie, but then Joan considered the author herself. She knew Moriarty in a way she sometimes couldn't explain - she could understand the convoluted layers that the woman used to protect and disguise herself. 

Joan knew that Jamie Moriarty would rather die than truly admit to weakness, to give herself away in something as simple as the way she wrote. But that, that in _itself_ was the smokescreen. The deliberate lack of pressure, the even shape of the flowing script, the refinement... in Moriarty's case, it pointed somewhere else entirely. 

To Joan, somehow, with a certainty she couldn't quite voice... it suggested genuine emotion. 

What that emotion was, Joan could only guess at. She leaned back at her desk, letting out a long sigh, rubbing at her eyes. Just reading the letter had made her feel incredibly exhausted, but one thing was for sure. 

She was going to need to have words with Agent Mattoo.

###

_"Letters?"_ Agent Mattoo repeated, his voice slow and even, as though Joan hadn't just been subjected to a longest, most nerve-wracking pause of her life. _"You are correct. You've been aware that we've allowed our inmate certain liberties in exchange for information, and among those have been the letters - even more carefully vetted, given the circumstances of her... previous brush with Mr. Holmes. I had been under the impression you were aware of this?"_

Joan closed her eyes for a moment. Agent Mattoo could only do as his job dictated, and she had to expect some level of secrecy and evasion from him. 

"Right, I did know about the letters to Sherlock, but I'm not sure what's triggered her... _interest_ in sending them to me instead. It caught me by surprise, and there have been... Well, there have been a disturbing number." That was about as delicately as Joan had the patience to put it. _Disturbing_ , and not entirely infuriating. 

A bit like that god-awful painting Moriarty had done in her honour. 

_"If her correspondence is unwanted, I'll ensure that none of them make it past our facility's doors,"_ Agent Mattoo said after a moment, his tone apologetic. _"How does this outcome satisfy you?"_

"That would be very much appreciated," Joan told him, and admittedly, some small amount of relief coloured her voice. At least it was over and done with, but then a stray thought flitted to mind, and she asked, "Is she actually sending her letters to anybody else, then?"

_"No. Not since Sherlock left the country."_

"Good. She's not attempting to destroy anyone else with her words. then." Joan rested her face in her hands for a moment, before sitting back. "Thanks for being so understanding. I realise she gives you a run for your money." 

_"For you, Joan, nothing is too much."_ Agent Mattoo's voice was warm, but final. With that, Joan ended the call, setting her phone down among the pile of letters she'd accumulated over the past month. For somebody who prided herself on "subtle", Moriarty sure seemed to have forgotten the definition of it entirely. 

Just how much time had Moriarty devoted to trying to get under Joan's skin? What else did she have time for, locked away in that luxurious prison she'd bargained away her secrets for? Joan paused then, resting her chin on the palm of her hand, her fingers lingering on the corner of the nearest letter. 

If Joan was occupying Moriarty's mind, then the woman would not be pushing for a way to drag Sherlock back into her thrall. As angry and hurt as Joan was with her former partner, the man she'd considered her friend... 

Damn her, but Joan would still protect him from that. She'd still protect him from Jamie Moriarty as best as she could, even if he did not want to reciprocate that loyalty himself. 

Cursing under her breath, Joan took her phone in hand and redialed Agent Mattoo's number. 

She knew she was going to regret this.

###

In all honesty, Joan was somewhat surprised to find that Moriarty was being kept in the same facility as she had been the first time around. Given how the woman had made a mockery of their every security measure, had yet another death on her hands along with the attempted murder of Agent Mattoo... well, Joan had thought that she'd be stashed somewhere with far less freedom. 

Apparently, whatever bargaining chips Moriarty still held were worth big things to the government. 

_Perhaps you should come back and see me in a year,_ Moriarty had said, during Joan's last visit to the warehouse on the docks. Her voice had been strong and clear with conviction, so certain that even Joan herself had wondered if it would be true - that Moriarty quite literally would get away with murder. 

As bad a taste as it left in Joan's stomach, it was not her place to really get involved in all the wranglings and dealings on that side of the law. 

It was with squared shoulders and a steadying, deep breath that she left the NYPD squad car and moved to greet Agent Mattoo at the entrance to the facility. 

"Ms. Watson," Agent Mattoo said as she approached, extending his hand for hers. He'd seemed to have recovered remarkably well from his brush with the darker side of Moriarty's nature, and his handshake was both firm and warm. "I'm delighted to see you've changed your mind."

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Agent Mattoo," Joan replied, withdrawing her hand to the safety of her coat pocket. There was a serious bite to the air, and the dark clouds blowing in from across the ocean were not looking promising. "I continually find myself wishing the circumstances were better, though, and she wasn't involved each time."

"Duty is as duty does, Joan." The corners of Agent Mattoo's eyes crinkled as he smiled across at her, and with a nod, he began to lead her toward the facility's hidden entrance. "I did find myself curious, however. Why the change of heart? You seemed quite adamant that you were to have no further contact with her, the first we spoke."

"Admittedly, I was," Joan said, shaking her head. Her laugh was a weary one. "But then, I guess I realised that if I was the one occupying her mind..."

Agent Mattoo's own chuckle was about as drained as her own. "I see. A rather altruistic reason, then. I can't say many would make that choice." He looked back at her, his expression growing more serious as he continued to lead her through the graffitied, concrete walkways. "I can't say I'd encourage it, either. Few seem to understand she is... dangerous."

"Given how she's gotten every agency falling over themselves to offer concessions for her info, I can't say I'm surprised," Joan remarked, her voice dry and sarcastic. 

"And you and I know better than most." Agent Mattoo paused to swipe a security pass against a panel before tapping in a code. As he pushed open the next set of doors, he continued, "That said, I am glad you have come to pay her a visit. With Mr. Holmes away, she's been somewhat... bored."

Joan looked across at him sharply, a million questions on the tip of her tongue, but he kept his eyes steadily ahead. Apparently, that vague statement was all he was going to say on the matter, and they walked in silence until they arrived at another, final set of security doors. This part of the facility, Joan recalled - Moriarty personal, spacious cell waited ahead. 

God, but Joan really hoped that painting wouldn't be staring her in the face when she entered. 

As it turned out, it was gone, and she needn't have wasted her energy on dreading it. 

Like the last time Joan had visited Moriarty here, the woman was already in the room, seated on one of the threadbare couches to the side of the room. Joan's eyes roved her carefully, warily. Moriarty looked thinner, the scars on her wrists raised and red, but the twist to her lips was the same - still one of indecipherable, condescending humour. 

Moriarty's gaze was clear and level as she met Joan's eyes, and for a long few moments, neither of them said a word. 

Sherlock hadn't been afraid of Moriarty during his last visit. Despite the way she'd hurt him, manipulated him, lied to him, he'd taken the chair across from her, taking ownership of the conversation with practiced ease. Well, Joan was hardly Sherlock, and she had her own ways of doing things. In this, though, she felt like he had the right idea. 

"What exactly is it that you want?" Joan asked, her voice winter cold. She didn't bother taking the obvious seat, instead staring down at Moriarty from above. 

"Where I come from, it's customary to say hello first." Moriarty's lips curved a little more, though her smile never met her eyes. "Sherlock's poor manners are rubbing off on you, then?"

Joan's eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms against her chest. _Breathe._ "Quit the mind games. They're not going to work."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow, settling back further against where she was curled up on the couch. "Mind games? So soon after you arrived? Your lofty opinion of me is flattering, Watson."

Joan didn't rise to the bait, and she lifted her chin slightly as she asked, "Am I wrong?"

"Not at all." The woman didn't even have the nerve to look ashamed, her narrowed blue eyes like ice, her expression almost mocking as she continued to play her _games._

It might have been the sort of thing Sherlock enjoyed, but Joan was already getting a headache from it. If Moriarty insisted on wasting time by talking around in circles, then she was in for a rude awakening. 

Joan exhaled sharply, and she didn't drop her gaze from Moriarty's as she called out, "Agent Mattoo! I think I'm done here."

Moriarty cocked her head, the arrogant smirk on her lips fading somewhat. 

"Already running away? I seem to recall you afforded Sherlock's older brother a good deal more warmth, and a good many more chances. Tell me, _Watson._ " Her lips lingered on Joan's surname then, placing emphasis on every syllable. "How many people do you believe _he_ allowed to die?"

Unbelievable. The sheer audacity of the woman was absolutely breathtaking, and Joan couldn't quite keep the terseness from her voice as she said, "Don't waste your breath. This visit is not about Mycroft, and I'm not someone you can work your games on."

Joan turned sharply, completely done with trying to deal with this... self-centred _psychopath._ She started for the door. 

"And what if I promised you my very _best_ behaviour?" Moriarty asked, her voice pitched to carry. 

Joan didn't even hesitate, no matter that she could feel Moriarty's gaze practically boring into her back. "Promise what you want, Moriarty. I'm not your case worker."

She heard the couch shift, the sound of Moriarty leaning forward. She'd triggered some sort of reaction in the woman apart from all the smug arrogance. Interesting, but it wasn't going to stop Joan from leaving Moriarty to rot here in her boredom. 

"You wouldn't leave me all alone, Joan." Moriarty's tone was nothing but confident, betraying none of the keen interest Joan knew to be between them. "Right when I need a friend?"

And there it was, the psychological warfare Moriarty so easily fell to. To her, preying on the good intentions of others was just another weapon to use in her games. 

It was disgusting. 

Joan let her silence speak for itself as she rapped sharply on the security door. It was only when the door swung open, and Agent Mattoo nodded for Joan to come back through, that Moriarty spoke up again. 

"An _opponent._ " Moriarty's voice was reluctant, even halting, and when Joan looked over her shoulder, the woman's jaw was clenched in a tight, stubborn line. "I need an opponent. And you are the only challenge I can think of, with Sherlock having vanished into the ether."

So, it was that simple. Joan shook her head, at a loss for how to respond. What, exactly, was she meant to do with that sort of confession of ill-intent? 

Eventually, she managed, "That's nice, but I'm not the one you want."

Moriarty didn't reply, her blue eyes locked on Joan's, unable - unwilling - to concede even a fraction. Joan merely shrugged, moving to follow Agent Mattoo back into a world without criminal masterminds. Moriarty could have it her way. 

As the door swung shut, though, Joan heard Moriarty laugh to herself. 

"If that's what you truly believe, Watson, then you don't understand me half as well as you claim!"

###

Despite the firmness of her departure, Joan didn't push her luck by putting off her return to Moriarty's prison. No matter what she might personally wish, she did go back. Otherwise, what was the point of her plan in redirecting the woman's attentions?

After her last visit, Joan had made it abundantly clear to Moriarty that she was _not_ going to be putting up with any attempts at psychological warfare - at least not the more obvious ones, anyway. Once the limits were established and Moriarty knew for a fact that pushing them would get her nowhere... Joan had hoped things would improve. 

Joan just wished she didn't have so many mixed feelings when they really _did_. A part of her wished that she would still have a ready-made excuse to abandon the meetings, to force Moriarty onto the back foot so she could stew on _that_ until Joan visited next. 

But whatever Moriarty was aiming for, apparently she was willing to feign both humility and good behaviour for long enough. 

The visits became something of a habit for Joan, making the trip out to the warehouse by the docks at least once every two weeks. She kept the days varied, setting her schedule around a random selection, just so the woman wouldn't learn to pre-empt her presence with a knowing, smug smile. 

Despite Joan's best efforts, though, it was difficult not to let herself slip into a pattern once there. She'd show up at the prison, Moriarty would pretend she'd known it all along - _"It's a wonderful day outside, don't you agree, Watson? I just knew you'd visit,"_ she'd say, despite not having seen the sky since her disastrous assistance rendered earlier in the year. 

Between setting up her own consulting service and her new case on Elana March, Joan frankly wouldn't have the energy to argue the point each time, and she'd merely slip into the seat opposite Moriarty. 

They'd fire shots back and forth, sardonic scepticism meeting razor sharp wit and clashing. Moriarty never truly broached the topic of Sherlock's disappearance - a constant elephant in the room - and Joan knew better than to bring up all she knew about the Kayden Fuller case. 

Instead, they'd talk about anything else - everything else - and even Joan had to admit that beneath all the confronting brilliance and ruthlessness, Moriarty was a skilled conversationalist. 

For a career murderer, anyway. 

Smirking, Moriarty would lead Joan toward an answer, almost herding her with jabs and clever observations that seemed innocent and entirely reasonable. Joan would find a flash of insight as to what Moriarty was really digging for - a piece of Joan's past sometimes, information about the outside world for others - and so they'd go around and around in circles. 

It was thrilling in the same way Joan's partnership with Sherlock had been. It challenged her, pushed her boundaries in a way she still couldn't quite believe, had her questioning the world and people around her, had her looking for the hidden games.

Dangerous as Jamie Moriarty was, maybe Joan could understand a little of why Sherlock got so... caught up in the woman. A part of her couldn't quite help but dwell on Moriarty's last words, back during that first visit. 

What exactly did they mean? Why would _Watson_ be of genuine interest? It really was the key to all these visits, and the game Joan had yet to truly understand. Moriarty wanted something from her, some sort of information or secret. Joan just had to figure out what. 

But Moriarty hadn't mentioned anything more about it since that day, and no matter what Joan threatened, how she'd dug around and about for some sort of answer, the woman had yet to be drawn on the topic.

As she looked across the cell to where narrowed, dangerous blue eyes watched Joan's every movement, assessed her every word... Joan found that maybe, she didn't mind that these visits continued.

###

"You look a little weary, Watson." Moriarty had apparently dispensed with the lie of pleasantries these days, merely tossing the unflattering observation between them as soon as Joan had entered the room. Even from by the security doors, Joan's gaze caught on the mildly contemptuous curl of Moriarty's lips as she continued, "Surely you don't intend to keep me entertained by making me count your snores."

"I'm not here to entertain you," Joan replied, removing her coat and gloves and slinging them over her arm. While she was loath to show Moriarty even a hint of weakness, she couldn't quite keep the weariness from seeping into her tone. 

"Of course not." Moriarty shrugged a shoulder, all graceful charm despite her threadbare clothing, the harsh pale of her skin, having been without sunlight for the better part of a year. As if rethinking her strategy, that sneer sharpened into a smile. "A busy woman like yourself just skips on down to the docks on a whim. A part of your morning jog, perhaps?"

"What can I say?" Joan asked, sighing softly. So it was one of _those_ days. "I like to push myself."

That was certainly one way to phrase it. Joan's latest case - and the biggest, really, since Sherlock had up and left her in the lurch - was not exactly going well by anyone's standards. Elana March was getting the better of her, and no matter how many angles she considered, Joan could not make head or tails of _how_. 

It was driving her insane, and a part of her did wonder. Would March have gotten the best of Sherlock, too, if he'd seen fit to remain in New York? Or would he have been able to close the case, all on one of his insane observations?

God, Joan did not have time for these sort of doubts, and she sure as hell didn't have time for Moriarty's attempts at cleverness. Still, she had a role to play, and if she could deal with Moriarty's twisted games of lies, truths and poisons, then March would be easy enough. 

Moriarty's blue eyes studied Joan openly, watching as Joan took her usual seat across the room, leaning her weight on her elbow against the back of the couch, her legs tucked up beneath her. If not for the electronic tags on her hands and feet, the whole set up might have almost looked comfortable, if a little drab.

"Burning the candle at both ends... I'd say it was one of the many bad habits Sherlock taught you, but something tells me it was something you did regardless." Moriarty hummed beneath her breath, pretending to look thoughtful, though her gaze never dropped from Joan's for a moment. "Didn't you once make a habit of an eighty-hour work week? A little dangerous for a surgeon, don't you think?"

Joan didn't bother responding, merely taking a moment to resettle her skirt. Moriarty would often come up with ever more obscure fragments and facts about Joan's past - it had to be some sort of bizarre attempt to be unsettling. At first, Joan had responded predictably - she _had_ been put on edge, caught flat-footed about Moriarty's questions regarding her biological father. 

Then, she'd figured out that reacting was really just handing Moriarty an easy victory. So instead, she merely tilted her head, letting her bored expression speak for itself. 

_Try harder._

Moriarty's smile widened, a fraction mischievous, if a psychopathic mass-murderer could said to be anything of the sort. Her entire manner was one of delight - as if she was pleased about something. 

As if she'd won.

"Regardless, the observation still stands," Moriarty continued, her amusement fading into something that could well have been seriousness. She shifted, leaning forward until the couch beneath her creaked. "What on earth would you be doing that would run you so ragged, Watson?"

Where could Joan even _begin_ in answering that question? She sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair back behind her ear. 

"Contrary to seemingly popular belief, running a start-up consultation business isn't exactly easy, even with the NYPD giving me work." A little spitefully, she added, "Though I realise an honest day's work is as about as far from your experience as it gets."

Moriarty didn't even blink at the remark, merely leaning back against the couch again, entirely too amused to be for genuine. Her tone was as sweet and inoffensive as honey as she asked, "You think I've never worked an... 'honest day'?"

"I think the idea of 'honest' is lost on you entirely."

"Perhaps not in your world. Consulting businesses, masterminding a vast criminal empire the likes of which may never again be replicated..." Moriarty's smile fled, and her hand swept wide, as if in an attempt to convey the size of the 'criminal empire' Joan had been pivotal in crippling. That sweet tone soured to sarcasm as she snapped, "Yes, I do suppose your troubles _are_ more difficult. Silly me."

After all these weeks, Joan knew better than to rise to the bait. "Was there a point to all this, or were you just showing me how well you pretend at offence?"

"You really are a bore today." Moriarty heaved a great sigh, looking entirely too put-upon for a woman who should consider herself lucky Joan visited at all. "Even Sherlock in his most moody, existential ruminations was more entertaining."

"And we're back on the point about me not being here to entertain you."

"Then why are you here, Watson?" Moriarty pressed, and when Joan didn't answer - didn't want to answer - she shrugged. She looked pleased again, for reasons only she'd ever be able to understand. "Whatever your rationale, you're here now, and I have little else to do than hang on your every word, so please. Go ahead. Talk."

Joan hesitated, watching the woman for a long moment, her mind working, weighing, trying to decide if she was about to make a serious mistake. She'd sworn to herself that she'd give the bare minimum, that she would not get caught up in the charismatic cyclone that was Jamie Moriarty. But the March case was not progressing, and Detective Bell could only provide her with so much support as a sounding board before he began to grow frustrated.

What exactly did Joan have to lose, by asking for some general advice?

"Sherlock... said that a lot could be learned from you. By interacting with you." Joan studied Moriarty, taking in her every line, every curve, every dangerous element to the woman. She didn't want to admit that she felt a small thrill, and she cleared her throat, continuing. "I thought that he was crazy at first. Or just in love. But lately, I..."

"It's a case that is bothering you, then." Moriarty's blue eyes narrowed. Her sudden, full attention was almost a physical thing. "How interesting."

"That's one word for it, I suppose." Joan fell silent, her mouth dry as she slowly and deliberately sorted through her thoughts. "If you married into the drug business and had your partner murdered... how exactly would you get away with it?"

Moriarty's eyebrows arched, surprised. "You know I hardly work for free, Watson."

"So we're talking hypotheticals." The lie fell easily from Joan's tongue, and she watched Moriarty's chin tilt. She was beautiful, even here, dangerous in a way that made Joan's pulse race. 

Dangerous in a way that had drawn her to this line of work, really. She tried not to stare, to let her gaze linger on Moriarty, and maybe she was only partially successful. 

"Hypotheticals," Moriarty repeated, and if she disbelieved Joan's lie, she made no comment on it as she tapped her chin. "Of course, this has nothing to do with the recent assassination of a well known cartel leader?"

"Of course not," Joan replied, though a chill ran down her spine. As far as she knew, March's husband's death had been given very little coverage in the local papers, which were Moriarty's only source of information currently. How on earth had she known to ask at all?

Moriarty hummed under her breath, apparently unwilling to argue the point as she considered the problem before her. "There is a lot to be said of hostile takeovers. But inherited connections that come naturally... those are far more valuable." 

Moriarty lingered on the words, thoughtful and almost considering, and until that moment, her eyes hadn't dropped from Joan's once. Then, just for an instant, it flickered up and down Joan's body, the blue gaze intense enough to be a caress. 

Joan shivered, a hot-cold prickle running from the nape of her neck and down to the base of her spine. 

_Adrenaline,_ she told herself, though she no longer really believed that was all she sought from these meetings with Moriarty. 

"And really, once you assume the position naturally... well." Moriarty's lips twisted into a droll sort of smile then as she watched Joan, as if the entire 'hypothetical' was just an idle amusement. Joan supposed to her, it might as well have been. "I certainly wouldn't trust my late husband's men.. Perhaps just as a figurehead to keep the old guard happy and the authorities guessing as I consolidated my power elsewhere..."

"Of course not. That part is obvious..." Joan murmured, forcefully turning her gaze from anything but the wry curl of Moriarty's lips, seizing instead on the problem that had plagued her for months already. 

Moriarty was right. March's accountants and lieutenants - the ones that had served her husband so faithfully - would be nothing but white ants in any new regime she attempted to establish. If she stripped them of their power, which so often in these cartels was financial, then March would be able to do whatever the hell she wanted. 

That meant that the man Joan had considered to be the brains... Joan's eyebrows drew together, and she looked over her shoulder, toward the door back to civilisation and away from the warehouse prison. Where on earth would March be stashing the real bookkeeper, then? 

When Joan looked back over her shoulder to Moriarty, the woman's expression was amused. 

"You'll be going then?" Moriarty asked, settling back into her spot on the couch. She waved a dismissive hand, as if done with Joan's presence already. 

Joan merely snorted under her breath at the change of attitude, already shrugging on her coat. "Sorry to cut your games short. I just remembered that I've got a few things I need to take care of."

###

As it turned out, once Joan had the right mindset and the right sort of leads to follow, March's secret bookkeeper was easy enough to find. A wistful part of Joan - one that was also a known sucker for punishment - observed that Sherlock would have called it a case "inspiration", though she doubted he'd have approved at all of its source. 

Whatever the case, Joan did get a certain amount of vicious satisfaction when March agreed to lunch across town. She hadn't quite been able to resist using one of Moriarty's known intimidation tactics, and really, it had felt like a fitting sort of concession to the woman's twisted and roundabout assistance in the case. 

Sitting across the table from March, the cards in her hands and merely watching her nemesis bare her teeth in mockeries of smiles and worm her way around with social niceties... Joan had been able to appreciate the tactic's attractiveness, even if it wasn't really her usual. 

The trap she'd been springing was, admittedly, more Sherlock's influence and Joan's own thirst for the adventure, but the whole setup had worked like a charm and the case had been closed. 

By the time Joan had managed to extricate herself from the resulting mess of arrests, police proceedings, threats of legal action and paperwork, everything had seemed far too quiet. Far too... empty. The strange feeling dogged Joan's heels even when she returned to her apartment, to the pile of casework she'd been neglecting as March's elusiveness had mocked her for months. 

Going through the evidence for another case of identity theft - her client would really need to stop giving his credit card to his son - didn't seem like it would give her the sense of satisfaction she craved. Instead, she settled back, poured herself a glass of wine, and fully intended to enjoy her rare night off. 

Her thoughts drifted, though, and she couldn't help but wonder. What would Moriarty and her endless knowledge of the criminal underworld would make of the arrest?

###

Despite herself, Joan knew exactly why she returned to Moriarty. She understood why she shivered and thrummed for her next encounter with the woman, and that it was bad, _bad_ news. Even then, she still found herself at the warehouse on the docks the morning following the March arrests, her mouth dry and her heart seeming to pound offbeat and rapid in her own ears. 

Agent Mattoo offered Joan the usual greetings and smalltalk as he escorted her into the secure facility, but otherwise, he no longer remarked on her continued visits to the woman he kept under lock and key. That was good - while Joan had some idea of why she persisted, it was not something she wished to have to explain. 

God. It wasn't something she even wanted to admit, period. 

Joan still didn't hesitate as she stepped into the room where Moriarty spent her days, but neither did she offer the woman a greeting, merely taking her usual chair and waiting. 

Moriarty didn't turn to offer Joan so much as a look over her shoulder. She was painting today, busy at an easel set in what Joan had come to know as its usual place - something about the quality of light, Moriarty had said at some point, and Joan had merely nodded. 

From the jaunty tune Moriarty was humming beneath her breath, it appeared she was in a good mood. Especially if she'd dug out her oil paints - in all honesty, Joan hadn't seen any evidence the woman had worked with them since the Fuller case.

Joan tilted her head, watching the careful stroke of brushes against the wide expanse of canvass, content to listen to the breathy notes of the tune. She'd heard plenty from Sherlock, as he'd waxed poetical about Moriarty's skill in classical painting and restoration, but the only work she'd ever seen of the woman's had been the painting of Joan herself. 

For obvious reasons, at the time Joan really hadn't wanted to examine that particular artwork too closely, a little afraid at what she might learn from all she read into it. Now...

She didn't know where that painting had gone, but she wondered. Was Moriarty's obvious fascination with Joan the same as the one she'd unmistakably developed herself?

Joan reached up, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She really should have known better than to have come back. She knew better, and yet she remained, her entire attention caught on a woman she was meant to find entirely repulsive. 

Mouth dry, Joan watched Moriarty set her brush down with a long, satisfied sigh and a languid roll of her shoulders, tossing golden curls back over her shoulder. 

The rush of both delight and dread that infused Joan when those icy blue eyes flickered in her direction was dizzying, though she let none of it show on her face as Moriarty's lips curved into a slow, dangerous sort of smile. 

"I see congratulations are in order," she said, drawing something that had been balanced on the shelf of her easel, unfurling it with hands smudged and streaked by her oils. 

Joan didn't have to read the headline to know that it was some breathless, sensationalist coverage of the March arrest. Of course, the name of the NYPD's consultant on the case was not dropped - it never was - but Moriarty was at least as intelligent as Sherlock. 

Of course, she'd already put the pieces together. 

"What can I say," Joan said, slowly getting to her feet again, if only to reduce the height advantage Moriarty had. "You'll be happy to learn that the case won't be causing me any more lost sleep." 

"Is that so?" Moriarty asked, humming beneath her breath as her eyes flickered back down to the paper in her hand. "Well. I don't suppose it's remiss of me to warn you that March does not seem to be the type to lose so easily." Her smile widened, then. "Honour is such a fickle thing, these days."

Joan shook her head, a little disgusted by the hypocrisy, if not shocked by it. "As if you've ever cared of honour. Just in protecting your interests."

"Very good," Moriarty said, tossing the paper over to the spare couch, her point made and her predisposition to gloat apparently having been satisfied. "And you are one of those interests, Joan Watson." 

Her smile never met her blue eyes, but there was something newer in the way she moved - something more certain. Something far more predatory. Torn between wariness and fascination, Joan tracked Moriarty's slow approach, the gentle sway of her hips as she moved, the full curve of her lips. 

God. Joan knew she was staring, and so somehow, she managed to get out, "So you've said." 

Moriarty made a sound at the back of her throat that may have been agreement, had it been from anyone else. She paused then, just inches away, those cool blue eyes flickering down, boring into Joan's flesh as though she held command over every secret Joan held. 

"I also said I didn't work for free, Watson," Moriarty murmured then, leaning in even closer, and Joan's senses were enveloped by the scent of the harsh prison soap, the oil from her paints.

It was altogether different from what Joan remembered - fine perfumes, imported creams. Then again, that Moriarty had maintained a flawless veneer of control and command.

Now, Joan knew better. This Moriarty had traded most of her secrets for favours in a prison. This Moriarty was so starved for challenge that she even sought out the one who had brought her low in the first place. For all her pretences, Joan knew better. 

"There's little to be done for that now," Joan pointed out, clearing her throat and somehow finding her voice, and Moriarty, Moriarty _laughed_ low and delighted. 

"I can still think of adequate payment."

For all that she'd lost so much weight and wore nothing but the drab, untailored clothing provided by the government, Moriarty was still so beautiful it almost physically hurt for Joan to look at her. Breathless and unable to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat, Joan wondered if that was a little of how Sherlock felt - that Moriarty was gorgeous, but undeniably poisonous. 

Even knowing that, the thoughts and alarm bells whirling, blinding and distracting in her head, Joan still didn't pull away as Moriarty leaned down. She still did _nothing_ as Moriarty pressed her lips Joan's own, soft and open and lingering, and only then did Joan act. 

She kissed back, just for a moment, before she could even think to stop. It was enough to taste Moriarty on her lips and tongue, damning and warm and _sweet_ , enough to send Joan's heart hammering in her chest. When Moriarty pulled away, the curve of her lips was satisfied and victorious, for the life of her, Joan couldn't read the look in those blue eyes. 

Joan backed away, swallowing hard, because that was -

That was the worst thing she'd ever allowed - _wanted_ \- to happen. It was a betrayal of everything she held dear! Her friendship and partnership with Sherlock, her ethical integrity, her _values_ \- it was compromising like nothing else she'd ever done, even when she was young and guilty and handing in her resignation.

Joan had to get out of there, away from the prison. She needed space. Distance. Perspective. She was shaking as she turned her back on Moriarty, as she knocked on the door for Agent Mattoo to collect her. Moriarty's gaze was like a physical touch, dragging down between her shoulder blades.

A part of Joan wanted to stay, to learn more. But the bigger part of her wanted to run as far away as she could manage.

Moriarty's daring had scared her. Joan's own reaction had scared her. 

More than anything, though, Joan was afraid she'd fallen for a woman as addictive as any thrill from a case.


End file.
